In the vibrant heart of Lin’an, nestled between a silk merchant’s overflowing shop and a scholar’s quiet bookstore, stood the ‘Fragrant Cloud Pavilion’. More than just a tea house, it was an institution, renowned as much for its rare infusions and delicate pastries as for the magnetic charm of its proprietor, Boss Qian Feng. Young, handsome, and possessing an uncanny knack for making every patron feel like the most important person in the room, Qian Feng had built his establishment into a haven of refined leisure, a place where merchants discussed deals, officials gossiped discreetly, and scholars debated poetry over steaming cups of Dragon Well tea.

  Presiding over the smooth operation, almost blending into the polished rosewood furniture and elegant porcelain, was Ah Chun. She wasn't family, but she might as well have been. Taken in by Qian Feng’s parents years ago as an orphaned waif, she had grown up within the tea house walls. Now a young woman of quiet competence, she managed the staff, oversaw the inventory, and anticipated Boss Qian’s needs with an efficiency born of long familiarity and an unspoken, fiercely loyal devotion. Her own feelings for him were a carefully guarded secret, a gentle ache hidden beneath a placid surface.

  The Fragrant Cloud Pavilion thrived, a microcosm of Lin’an’s sophisticated prosperity. Until Lian Hua arrived.

  She appeared one misty spring evening, seemingly materializing from the damp air like a lotus blossom unfurling. Her beauty was breathtaking, almost unnatural – skin like luminous white jade, eyes like pools of obsidian reflecting the lanterns, movements possessing a fluid grace that captivated every eye. She claimed to be a traveler from the distant south, her family lost to misfortune, seeking refuge. Qian Feng, normally astute and level-headed, was utterly smitten. Within a whirlwind week, defying all convention and whispered advice, he married her.

  Lian Hua became the new mistress of the Fragrant Cloud Pavilion. She rarely involved herself in the business, preferring to glide through the rooms like an exquisite ornament, her serene smile and soft words enchanting the clientele. Qian Feng was besotted, showering her with gifts, his attention entirely consumed by his beautiful bride.

  At first, Ah Chun tried to share her master’s happiness. Lian Hua was polite, if distant, towards her. Yet, an unsettling feeling coiled in Ah Chun’s gut, a subtle dissonance she couldn't quite name. Lian Hua’s perfection felt… manufactured. She never seemed to eat or drink, always politely refusing refreshments. Her hands, though exquisitely formed, felt unnaturally cold to the touch during accidental brushes. And sometimes, late at night, when Ah Chun was tallying accounts, she would catch a faint, unpleasant scent lingering near the private quarters – a cloying mix of cheap perfume and something else, something vaguely metallic and decayed.

  Then, the disappearances began. Old Master Liu, a wealthy silk merchant and a daily visitor for years, vanished without a trace. A week later, Scholar Bai, known for his lengthy afternoon debates over tea, failed to appear, his rented rooms found empty. Both men had been known admirers of the new mistress, often lingering late, captivated by her presence. Qian Feng dismissed the concerns with uncharacteristic impatience, attributing the disappearances to unpaid debts or sudden journeys.

  But Ah Chun saw the change in him. The vibrant energy that had defined Qian Feng began to leach away. His laughter became infrequent, his eyes grew shadowed, and a worrying thinness hollowed his cheeks. He became irritable, prone to sharp rebukes, his focus solely on Lian Hua, who seemed to bloom even as he withered. The tea house, once filled with warmth and lively chatter, began to feel subtly colder, the shadows in the corners deeper.

  Fear gnawed at Ah Chun. This wasn't just infatuation; it was consumption. She started watching Lian Hua more closely. She noticed how the mistress would often retire early to her chambers, pleading fatigue, yet no sound ever emerged from behind the closed door. She saw how Lian Hua subtly recoiled from direct sunlight, preferring the dimly lit inner rooms. One night, driven by a desperate need for answers, Ah Chun crept towards the master’s private courtyard after everyone had retired. The strange, cloying scent was stronger here. Peering through a tiny gap in the ornate window screen of Lian Hua’s chamber, she saw… nothing. The room was dark, seemingly empty, yet the feeling of wrongness was overwhelming.

  The final straw came when young Master Feng, a jovial regular known for his harmless flirting, disappeared after boasting he would win a smile from the beautiful mistress. Ah Chun knew she could no longer remain silent. Remembering the hushed reverence with which Old Man Yao at the river docks had spoken of the wandering Daoist, Xuan Zhen, she made discreet inquiries. It took several anxious days, but she finally learned he was temporarily lodging at a quiet temple on the outskirts of the city.

  Taking her courage in both hands, Ah Chun sought him out. Xuan Zhen received her in a simple meditation cell, his calm presence a stark contrast to her frantic state. He listened patiently as she poured out her fears – the disappearances, Boss Qian’s decline, Lian Hua’s unsettling perfection, the coldness, the strange scent, her glimpse into the empty room.

  Xuan Zhen’s eyes, clear and perceptive, seemed to see beyond her words. “Beauty can be a mask, child,” he said softly when she finished. “And some masks are painted not with cosmetics, but with far darker substances. This coldness, this scent… it speaks of Yin energy corrupted, of something pretending to be alive. Your master is ensnared not just by beauty, but by a parasitic presence.”

  He agreed to visit the Fragrant Cloud Pavilion the following afternoon, advising Ah Chun to act normally but remain observant.

  Xuan Zhen arrived dressed as a simple traveler seeking tea. The moment he stepped inside, he felt it – the vibrant Qi of the prosperous tea house overlaid with a chilling, predatory aura that emanated from the deeper recesses of the building. He observed Boss Qian, noting the man’s superficial charm barely concealing a deep weariness and a disturbing hollowness in his eyes. When Lian Hua glided over to greet the ‘guest’, Xuan Zhen met her gaze directly. Her smile was flawless, her voice melodic, but her eyes held no warmth, only a flat, watchful intelligence. He felt the brush of a subtle enchantment, an attempt to cloud his perception, which he easily deflected with his own cultivated mental clarity.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  “The tea here is famous,” Xuan Zhen remarked calmly, “but the true treasure, it seems, is the mistress’s beauty, which brightens the entire establishment.”

  Lian Hua’s smile tightened fractionally. “The Daozhang is too kind. I am but a humble companion to my husband.”

  Xuan Zhen took a sip of the tea Ah Chun nervously served him. He discreetly drew a small, polished bronze disc from his sleeve – a Demon-Reflecting Mirror (照妖镜 - Zhaoyao Jing), though less potent than legendary artifacts, still capable of revealing minor illusions or disturbances in Qi under focused intent. Angling it slightly, he caught Lian Hua’s reflection. For a fleeting instant, the image wavered, the perfect features blurring into something greyish and indistinct before snapping back into focus. Enough.

  Later, finding a moment alone with Ah Chun near the kitchens, he pressed a small, folded yellow talisman into her hand. “Talisman of True Sight (真视符 - Zhenshi Fu). Tonight, when she retires, find a way to observe her chamber unseen. Hold this talisman before your eyes. Do not confront her, no matter what you see. Your safety is paramount. Report back to me at the temple before dawn.”

  Terror warred with determination in Ah Chun’s heart, but she nodded, clutching the talisman.

  That night was the longest of Ah Chun’s life. She waited until the tea house was silent, until Boss Qian, looking utterly drained, had retired to his own separate room (Lian Hua had insisted on her own chamber shortly after the marriage, citing ‘different sleeping habits’). Heart pounding, Ah Chun crept barefoot along the corridor towards the mistress’s room. The sickly-sweet, metallic odor was stronger than ever. Finding a loose panel in the woodwork she had noticed earlier, offering a sliver of a view, she held her breath and raised the talisman before her eyes.

  The simple paper felt warm in her hand. As she peered through the crack, the talisman’s power activated. The darkness within the room seemed to recede, replaced by a chilling, ethereal glow. And she saw.

  Lian Hua stood before a tall, ornate mirror, her back to Ah Chun. But it wasn’t Lian Hua. The figure was gaunt, skeletal, covered in rotting, greyish flesh that clung loosely to bone. Its movements were jerky, unnatural. With painstaking slowness, the creature reached up and peeled the beautiful face away, revealing a horrifying visage beneath – a skull-like head with empty sockets and razor-sharp teeth set in a lipless grin. The peeled-off face, limp and pale, was laid carefully on a stand. Then, the creature picked up a fine brush and dipped it into pots of garishly coloured pastes. It began to paint onto a fresh, blank sheet of human-like skin stretched taut on a frame – recreating Lian Hua’s exquisite features with meticulous, horrifying artistry. The air filled with the stench of decay and cheap chemicals.

  Ah Chun clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, bile rising in her throat. The talisman burned against her fingers. She stumbled back, turned, and fled, running blindly through the darkened streets until she reached the temple, collapsing before Xuan Zhen’s cell, sobbing incoherently.

  Xuan Zhen listened calmly, his face grim. “The Hua Pi Gui. A Painted Skin Demon. It wears the skin of its victims, needing fresh ones periodically, and nourishes itself on the life force, the Yang energy, of those captivated by its disguise. Your master is its primary source.”

  Before dawn, Xuan Zhen returned with Ah Chun to the Fragrant Cloud Pavilion. He instructed her to wake Boss Qian and bring him to the main hall, no matter his protests. Xuan Zhen waited calmly, arranging several potent talismans around the room.

  Ah Chun managed to rouse a confused and weak Qian Feng, half-dragging him to the hall. He blinked owlishly, demanding to know the meaning of this intrusion. Just then, Lian Hua appeared at the entrance, radiating serene beauty, though her eyes darted towards Xuan Zhen with undisguised hostility.

  “Husband, what is this disturbance?” she asked, her voice like silk. “This Daoist troubles our peace.”

  “Peace?” Xuan Zhen stepped forward, holding the Demon-Reflecting Mirror aloft. “Or the quiet draining of a life? Show your true face, demon!” He channeled his Qi into the mirror.

  A beam of clear light shot from the mirror, striking Lian Hua. She shrieked, a sound utterly inhuman, staggering back as her beautiful facade flickered violently. The glamour dissolved, revealing the horrifying, grey-skinned creature beneath, its painted skin suit hanging grotesquely.

  Qian Feng stared, his face a mask of utter disbelief and horror, the enchantment shattering like brittle glass. “Lian Hua…?” he whispered, collapsing onto a bench.

  The demon, its disguise ripped away, snarled, its voice a guttural rasp. “Meddling priest! He was mine! His vitality… so sweet…” It lunged, not at Xuan Zhen, but towards the terrified Qian Feng, its claws extended.

  Xuan Zhen moved swiftly, intercepting it with his horsetail whisk, the consecrated hairs burning the creature’s skin. He slapped a Demon-Suppressing Talisman (镇妖符 - Zhenyao Fu) onto its forehead. The demon recoiled, screeching, but tore the talisman off with surprising strength.

  “You cannot comprehend!” it hissed, its movements becoming faster, more erratic. “I only sought… warmth. Existence. I learned from them… the ones before him… their desires, their regrets… I tried to be what they wanted!” It gestured wildly, and faint, ghostly images flickered around it – the faces of Master Liu, Scholar Bai, young Feng, their expressions mirroring the demon’s own mimicked desires. This was the twist Xuan Zhen had sensed – the creature wasn’t just consuming, it was desperately, pathologically imitating, absorbing personalities only to discard the husks.

  The battle raged through the elegant tea house. Porcelain shattered, tables overturned. The demon was fast and surprisingly strong, fueled by the life force it had stolen. It used illusions, brief flashes of the beauty it wore, trying to distract and confuse Xuan Zhen. But the Daoist remained centered, his movements precise, his talismans and whisk weaving a pattern of defense and attack. He used Fire Talismans (火符 - Huo Fu) to exploit its fear of Yang energy, and Golden Light Chants (金光咒 - Jinguang Zhou) to disrupt its spectral form.

  Finally, Xuan Zhen managed to corner the creature against a large decorative screen depicting serene mountains. Pinning it momentarily with a blast of pure Qi from his palm, he swiftly drew his consecrated peachwood sword (桃木剑 - Taomu Jian). Chanting the incantation for severing unnatural bonds, he plunged the blade into the demon’s chest where its heart should have been.

  The Hua Pi Gui let out one last, earsplitting shriek that cracked the nearby windowpanes. Its form convulsed violently, the stolen skin suit sloughing off like wet paper. The grey, skeletal figure beneath rapidly dissolved into black, foul-smelling smoke, which was then forcefully dispersed by a final wave of Xuan Zhen’s purifying energy.

  Silence fell, heavy and absolute. The stench of decay slowly faded, replaced by the scent of ozone and burnt incense. Qian Feng sat numbly amidst the wreckage, staring at the spot where the demon vanished, his face aged years in a single night. Ah Chun rushed to his side, her loyalty unwavering even in the face of horror.

  Xuan Zhen surveyed the scene, his expression somber. The demon was gone, but the scars remained. He cleansed the tea house of residual Yin energy, offered Qian Feng a calming draught, and spoke quiet words of recovery. The Fragrant Cloud Pavilion would survive, perhaps, but its innocence was lost, shattered like the delicate porcelain scattered across the floor. The allure of perfect beauty, Xuan Zhen reflected, often concealed the most profound emptiness, a painted skin hiding a consuming void.